


Meeting Mr. Holmes

by wordybirdy



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: First Meetings, Friendship, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-19
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:47:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson documents how he first came to meet the extraordinary Sherlock Holmes. It was all young Stamford's fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Meeting

I do not recall if I have ever before, up to this point, documented the tale of how I first came to meet that most noble of gentlemen: the extraordinary and much-admired Sherlock Holmes. The reader is likely unaware that we were both still relatively young men, with grand ideas and brash enthusiasms only slightly tempered by life's buffing. We met at Bart's Hospital; our mutual acquaintance Stamford as intermediary.

“You probably will not like the fellow,” Stamford had said to me, with a nervous twitch of his left eyelid.

“Oh, and why is that?” I countered, the more intrigued as we sat to lunch at the Criterion that day to exchange our news; strangers met again, after so long.

“Well, for one thing, he is a lunatic,” said my former colleague.

My right eyebrow raised a notch or two.

“How so?” I enquired.

“He is one enzyme short of a full test-tube... a half-turn shy of a focused microscope... a --”

“Yes, yes,” I interrupted, pressing a napkin to my lips to absorb my spluttered gravy, “I understand your general drift, Stamford. But if the man is such a bedlamite, then how is he so well respected within his field?”

Stamford shrugged. “Search me,” he said. “Still, all the same, I rather like him. His eccentricity is endearing.”

I was confused. “You like him, but you believe that I might not?”

“Well, it is not me that is looking for rooms or contemplating the possibility of living with him,” replied my old friend. “Just one week in close proximity with him would surely send any sane soul over the edge.”

“Thank you, Stamford, at the very least, for deeming me to be a sane soul,” said I, shaking my head, yet now ever the more curious to meet the formidably bizarre Mr. Sherlock Holmes. “Let us settle our bill here, then, and be off to the hospital before you think twice of your foolishness.”

Stamford took me through the familiar winding corridors of that vast building, leading me at last to a large laboratory, set with a great many tables and equipment for the students. At first I believed the room to be empty; but then we heard a distant rustle and a clatter at the far corner, and a dark knot of hair poked up from behind a microscope.

“There he is,” said Stamford. He waved across to the shadowed outcrop in cheerful greeting.

“Go away,” came the reply; a quavering high timbre. “I am in the middle of a thing.”

“Your 'thing', whatever it is, cannot possibly be as important as meeting this charming gentleman stood beside me,” replied Stamford, not remotely fazed by the rebuff. “He is seeking affordable lodgings, the same as you, Holmes.”

The figure straightened up a fraction, leaned around to one side of the desk and deigned to eye me most severely. I shuffled, a little uncomfortably, I confess, but I smiled in my most friendly fashion.

“Good afternoon!” I called. “May I introduce myself?”

There was a moment's pause while the fellow seemed to contemplate the proposition.

“...Yes?” came the eventual reply, apparently with effort.

“It was not our intention to disturb you,” I said, contrite. “Perhaps you would prefer if we returned later?”

Mr. Holmes rose up from his stool and fairly rushed up to the two of us, an apologetic grimace upon his face.

“It is all right,” said he, with a flourish. “I was eating a sandwich. An egg one. With a big tomato,” he added, proudly.

“I thought that you were busy working on your haemoglobin?” said Stamford, still standing next to me.

“No,” said Holmes, with a toss of his head. “I did that _ages_ ago.” He looked at me again. “What's your name? How do you know Stamford? You have crumbs in your moustache.”

I wiped self-consciously at my upper lip.

“We had lunch at the Criterion,” I explained, blinking up at him. Then: “I am Dr. John Watson. Stamford was a dresser under me here at Bart's, years ago.” I rubbed my moustache again. “Crumbs all gone?”

Holmes nodded. “Yes.” He accepted the hand I had thrust out towards him, and shook it firmly. If he had grasped it any tighter then I suspect he would have crushed one or more bones of me. “My name is Sherlock Holmes,” said he. He was tall, overly slender, remarkably intense and potentially insane. And I could be sharing rooms with him within a matter of short days. 

“I am very pleased to meet you,” I said. “You are a student here?”

This horrified him. 

“No! Why ever should you think that?”

I scratched my head. “Well, because you are here, in this laboratory, sitting at one of the desks and using all of its equipment?”

The fellow stared at me oddly. “I do not follow your logic,” said he.

“That would infer the likelihood of your being a medical student, would it not?” I persisted.

“But I am not,” he said, with a frown.

I gave up.

“You know of some rooms, Stamford here has been telling me,” I said, encouragingly. I could hear my old hospital colleague shifting uncomfortably at my side, edging further away from me towards the exit. 

A curious light sparked behind the grey eyes of my new friend.

“I do indeed,” said he. “A remarkable suite at Baker Street. The rent is regrettably too high for myself alone. Are you rich?” He examined me keenly. “You have spilled gravy on your waistcoat. That is in _addition_ to the crumbs that were in your moustache. Do you have an eating problem?”

“No,” I retorted, sharply. “I do not have an eating problem. The dining table was merely situated a further distance from my chair than I might have liked, and I simply --” I broke off suddenly, irritated by his rudeness. “Why on _earth_ should I have to explain myself, or indeed the state of my wretched waistcoat?! You, sir, have no manners.”

Holmes's expression became crestfallen. He bowed his head to gaze at an indeterminate spot upon the floor. His hands flailed in minute distress until he anchored them within his trouser pockets. I felt a small pang of sympathy, despite his poor behaviour.

“What is the property address?” I asked him, kindly. “And when would you be free to show me around them?”

He looked up, possibly dumbfounded at having been so swiftly forgiven, for his face was now all smiles.

“Oh,” said he, “shall we say tomorrow, at noon? The address is 221B. _Baker Street_ ,” he repeated, in case I had not heard him the first time. Then, very rapidly, in a nervous stream of words: “I smoke a great deal, play the violin very loudly, am intolerably appalling to most everyone I meet, cast foul-smelling chemical experiments, and keep strange hours that would try the patience of 20 saints.” He looked at me anxiously. “How about you?”

I laughed. “I can only identify with the first of your admissions,” I told him, “but I expect I have a great many others if I put my mind to think of them. None that need immediately alarm you, at any rate.”

Holmes sat back against the corner of a desk, and eyed me.

“You're nice,” he said. He seemed rather surprised by this.

“Thank you.”

“I like your moustache.”

I blinked. “Thank you?” I quelled the urge to dab at it. I turned around to where Stamford had been standing, but he had long since vanished, the door an inch or two ajar. I set my lips in tight disapproval. I wondered then how many friends Sherlock Holmes might have, or if he was as solitary a creature as I myself was, alone in London. He was an oddity and rough around the edges, yet I found myself quite fascinated by his gaucheness, and curious to find out some more about him.

We shook hands again to go our separate ways.

“What is it that you do?” I asked him.

Holmes smiled at me mysteriously.

“Oh, wouldn't you like to know,” he said, as the laboratory door clattered shut behind us.


	2. 221B Baker Street

In that interim period, between the moment of wishing Sherlock Holmes a very good afternoon and the occasion of arriving at 221B Baker Street for the first time the following day, at noon, I had dwelled much upon this new turn of events. The hotel where I currently resided was beyond my modest means; I also found myself lonely and in need of companionship. Could this prospective new partnership be any less fruitful?

If I did choose to move in, might this strange fellow Holmes cut my throat in my sleep? 

My goodness, I had quite forgotten to ask if bull pups were allowed.

It was a good thing that I did not possess one.

Noon, then. As I stepped down from the hansom I saw Holmes leaning with his back to the wall, one leg tucked behind him to scuff at the brick. He straightened up when he saw me; adjusted his coat, uncrooked his tie. I stepped up to meet him and we shook hands for the third time in two days.

“I am wearing a new shirt. Do you like it?” he asked, apropos of nothing.

“Why, yes, it is very smart,” I replied, somewhat taken aback.

He smiled tentatively. 

“I brushed my hat as well. It took ages,” he complained. “When we move in here, I shall get Mrs. Hudson to do it for me.”

“Now wait a minute, Holmes,” I said, in slight alarm. “I have not accepted the offer yet. I have not even inspected the rooms, nor do I know the details of the rent, or of...” I paused. “Who is Mrs. Hudson?”

“Our landlady,” said Holmes, electing to ignore my bleat. He knocked upon the front door. He sighed, huffed and knocked again. “Mrs. Hudson is very slow at answering the door,” said he, frowning. It had been just 10 seconds since his first rap. He set out a third flurry of knocks, the last of which saw the door heaved open and inwards; and there was the small, indignant figure of a middle-aged woman, peering out at us.

“Oh, it is you!” said she, scoldingly. “I heard you at the first knock, Mr. Holmes. There is no need to be so impatient.”

“It is cold,” said Holmes. He placed one foot upon the threshold. “And you were very slow.”

I smiled apologetically at the dear lady, for I feared that she might slam the door shut upon the both of us. I introduced myself with my best ability and tact. 

To some extent mollified, we were admitted entry by the lady of the house, and handed a small ring of keys to take ourselves around. 

“She does go on,” said Holmes, as he took the stairs three at a time.

“I am hardly at all surprised,” I said, puffing behind him. “Are you always this impolite?”

He looked back at me with one eyebrow raised.

“Yes,” said he.

He unlocked a large door, and we stepped through.

The sitting-room was bright and very spacious, partly furnished, with a bay window that looked out onto Baker Street itself, and a side door leading off to another area. Holmes extended his arms and twirled about, reminiscent of an off-kilter ballerina. I understood that he was encouraging me to examine my surroundings. I did so – steering well clear of him – but quite unable to conceal my pleasure and admiration of the room.

“How very lovely!” I exclaimed. I glanced across at Holmes, who was regarding me intently. “What?”

He turned and pointed at the fireplace.

“We can toast marshmallows!” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

He performed an elaborate mime of impaling a marshmallow upon a spear and holding it over an imaginary flame, turning his fanciful stick with its invisible delicacy. 

“Or bread,” said he, amending the detail slightly upon observing my unimpressed countenance. “Oh, for heaven's sake, you do like toasted _bread_ at least, don't you?”

“Yes,” I said, my head beginning to spin, “yes, I do like toasted bread.” I half turned towards the door leading to the sanctuary of the stairs. Briefly, I considered making a sprint for it; I wondered then if he would try to tackle me to the floor.

“Holmes,” I said, gathering my wits, “have you ever lived with anyone, before now?”

“No,” said he. Then he appeared to think hard, reconsidering. “Well, yes.”

“No-well-yes?”

“I lived with people when I was born.”

I blinked. “That would be only natural,” I said, cautiously.

“And for a while after that, too,” he continued, warming to the theme. “Until I was a little older. And a little beyond that.”

“But as an _adult_ , Holmes. Have you ever shared rooms with anyone as an adult, who was not family?”

“No.” He tutted. “I already said as much, Watson, if you would only pay attention.”

He stepped forward to the mystery door and unlocked it, sticking his head inside.

“This will be my room,” he said with an air of decision.

“But --”

“It is not as nice as yours,” said Holmes – to pacify me, I had no doubt. “There is an upstairs bedroom with the most excellent view over a tree.”

“A _tree?_ ”

Clutching my sleeve, he led me eagerly up to the second floor and pushed me into the room before him. It was a cheerful, bonny space overlooking the rear yard, already furnished with the essentials. I glanced out of the window, for he was gesticulating with great eagerness that I should do so.

“Ha, you are right, Holmes,” I said, peeping, “it is a plane tree.”

“Well, I did not think it was as plain as all that,” said he, in an offended tone.

“No, no, I meant – oh, never mind. I do like the room very much. And the tree,” I added.

My new friend appeared pleased. For a minute or two he gabbled of the monthly rent, and the landlady's cooking, and the positive ambience of the neighbourhood. And by degrees I found myself warming to him, for I thought him to be deeply sincere despite his eccentricities, and anxious to please – a feat enough, from all I had heard of the fellow from Stamford. We wended our way back to the sitting-room, and Holmes told me of his chemical experiments – “They pong a little,” – of his beloved Stradivarius – “Sometimes I ping, pluck and scrape away at it for hours,” – and of his necessity to utilise the main room to greet his clients from time to time.

“Your clients?” I asked, intrigued. “So you run your own business from home?”

He opened his mouth, only to shut it again.

“It is not really a business,” he said, carefully. “Well. Perhaps a little. But not really.”

“I must confess I find it puzzling,” I said, “but if you do not wish to speak about it, so be it.”

“It is not haberdashery, money-lending or music tutelage,” he blurted.

My lips twitched in quiet amusement.

“Is it a massage service that you provide?” I asked him in mischief.

“ _No!_ ” He sounded horrified by the idea. Then: “It is not hairdressing, dentistry or greengrocery, either.”

I burst into laughter then.

“I suppose by a process of elimination we might eventually arrive at the truth,” I said.

His face broke out into a broad wreath of smiles.

“Watson,” said he, “you have no idea what you just said, and certainly no idea how very much that has pleased me.”

He clapped a hand upon my shoulder, and with very little further ado therefore, we sealed the deal with Mrs. Hudson. With immediate effect, Mr. Sherlock Holmes (occupation unknown) – and I – would be sharing rooms at 221B Baker Street. I found myself looking forward to the morrow, and the beginning of this new stage of my eventful life.


	3. Moving In

The following morning saw me ensconced within my new living quarters and surrounded by my few, paltry possessions: my books, clothes, hats and boots, and very little else. Mrs. Hudson came to oversee the transition and to ensure that I was comfortable.

“When will Mr. Holmes be arriving?” she asked, with no small amount of trepidation. “How long have the two of you known one another?”

“I think before lunch,” I replied. “And we met for the first time two days ago.”

“Oh!” said she. “Well, you mustn't let him tell you what to do, or stand for any of his nonsense.” She smiled at me. “That is not to say that he is a scoundrel,” she added, “just that he is, shall we say, a little different, and he is impulsive, and often acts before he thinks.”

“Yes,” I said, with a chuckle. “I have begun to see that already. I think that I shall be able to manage him, Mrs. Hudson.”

Shortly before midday I had transferred a number of my belongings to the sitting-room, had rearranged a little of the furniture to my liking and had had the fire lit. Now almost cosy, I settled myself in one of the chairs beside the glowing hearth, and awaited the arrival of my new companion.

I did not have long to wait. A mighty clattering and banging from the front hall alerted me to the abrupt proximity of a person or persons unknown. A loud salvo of grunts from the staircase informed me that it was most likely Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I rose from my chair and crossed to the door. Opening it and peering out, I saw that it was indeed the fellow himself, halfway ascended and struggling with an exceedingly large box to no avail. He looked up at me in anguish.

“Watson!” said he. “I appear to be terribly stuck.”

“What is the matter?”

“Why, it is this wretched box. It has become somehow jammed between the wall and the banister.” He tugged at it again, ineffectually, to prove his point. “If I let go of it, it will smash into a hundred pieces. But I am unable to pull it any higher. Blast it.” 

“You should have called up to me before you began the manoeuvre,” I said, hastening to help him. The staircase was very narrow, with little space on either side and barely room enough for such a box to traverse.

“Whatever do you have in there?” I asked him. “Half of London?”

He tutted, red-faced and exasperated.

“Test tubes, bottles, thingies and bits,” said he.

“I am unable to get past you, Holmes,” I said. “Is it possible that you can ease the box back down to the bottom, and then we can start over again?”

“I am _stuck!_ ” he whinnied. “My right knee is over there, and my left elbow is up around my ear. I have four more of these, as well.”

“You have to be joking,” I said. I wondered if I called out to Mrs. Hudson, she might be willing to take up arms from the opposite side. I concluded that it would be far too presuming of her good nature.

“ _MRS. HUDSON!_ ”

Sherlock Holmes had no such qualms.

By and by, with the three of us manipulating the box – and each other – by small degrees, we were able to lay our cargo upon the landing, happily undamaged and intact.

“That was horrid,” said Holmes, mopping his brow. “Would the two of you mind fetching the remainder from the hall while I go and have a lie down?”

Mrs. Hudson cast me a look that suggested she would far rather set about her new tenant with her rolling pin.

Holmes and I managed the four other boxes.

And now we sat, surrounded by the as yet unopened caskets and portmanteaus (thank heavens, there were just two of those), our breathing most irregular, our pipes stuffed and lit and pluming smoke.

“That was _quite_ ridiculous,” said Holmes, slumped in his chair. He yawned, and looked about him. “You have meddled with the furniture.”

“I rearranged it somewhat, yes,” I said, too tired to argue. “I moved the breakfast table closer to the window, and the two desks against the wall there, and these chairs, of course...”

“It looks nice,” said he. “Thank you. We must buy a sofa and some bookcases as soon as possible.”

“And we shall have them delivered and situated by gentlemen other than ourselves,” I said, quite firmly.

Holmes pouted. “If you insist,” he said. “But I shall not pay the fellows any extra.”

We talked, then, of my army medical career. Holmes was much interested, putting forth a great many questions. Of his own profession he remained mute, still. We discussed the merits of chocolate cake, the annoyances of brilliantine, the ecstasy of a good tobacco, and the putridity of Baxter's Good And Shiny tooth powder. “It would be better used as rat poison,” remarked my friend, with feeling.

And so we spent our first day together, quietly, to settle down, unpack and acclimatise. I have always prided myself upon my easy-going nature, and would consider myself an affable chap to lodge with. The more that I interacted with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, however, the greater I began to realise how utterly unsurprising it was that he had never cohabited with another soul up to this point. Fascinated by his quirks, I began to keep written note of his strengths and weaknesses, his interests and dislikes.

For I was very nosey that way.

The list was compiled as follows – for I know that you, dear reader, should likely wish to see it.

_** SHERLOCK HOLMES – HIS LIMITS ** _

_Knowledge of Literature: Has memorised every nursery rhyme from The Big Book of Snuggles, a well-thumbed copy of which resides on his shelf.  
Knowledge of Philosophy: Nil.  
Knowledge of Astronomy: Nil.  
Knowledge of Politics: Feeble.  
Knowledge of Botany: Variable.  
Knowledge of Geology: Practical, but limited.  
Knowledge of Chemistry: Profound.  
Knowledge of Anatomy: Accurate, although prone to distracting fits of giggles.  
Knowledge of Sensational Literature: Immense.  
Plays the violin well.  
Tells me he is an expert singlestick player (I never heard of such a sport; I think that he invented it just to impress me), boxer, and swordsman.  
Has a good practical knowledge of British law.  
He is as mad as a dustbin lid._

I placed my pencil to one side and read through the list again. I scratched my head in bepuzzlement at how such a motley selection of skills could possibly meld into a profitable career, such as I presumed that he must have. Those first few days we had no guests, nor did Holmes venture out beyond our front door other than to drag me briefly to Crabapple Antiques to inspect several items of furniture. We chose one or two charming pieces, arranged for their delivery, and then we parted – he to return to Baker Street, while I detoured to despatch a telegram and to visit the tobacconist.

When I returned, I found Holmes in a filthy mood.

“Whatever is the matter?” I asked.

He sniffed and tossed his head.

“You should know,” said he.

I was confused. “I am afraid that I do not,” I replied. “Whatever it is, it can only have occurred within the last twenty minutes, for you were quite cheerful while we were at the antiques shop.”

“Nothing is wrong,” said Holmes contradictorily, curling his legs up beneath where he sat. His face betrayed him otherwise, for his mouth was downturned and his brow was deep furrowed. Then he huffed and rummaged down the side of the chair, whereupon he flung a balled up piece of paper at my head.

“I am _not_ as mad as a dustbin lid,” he said finally, crossly.

“Oh dear,” I said. I retrieved the paper ball from the rug. “I did not intend for you to read that.”

“No, I am sure that you did not.”

“I meant it as a compliment.”

“And I do _not_ giggle at anatomy.”

I frowned. “Well, there was that picture with the--”

“ _That_ was an isolated occurrence,” he interrupted, testily. “And now I would like to challenge you to a round of singlestick, at your convenience.”

“I apologise,” I said, sincerely, feeling very bad about it now. “It was foolish of me to compile such a list. But I am so very curious about what it is that you do for your living, for you are so exceedingly secretive. The list was merely a means of my deducting what it might be.”

Holmes smiled, despite himself.

“Well, well,” he said. “You do keep scraping close to the fringe of it, all the same.”

I would have asked him what he meant by that, when we were held by the loud knocking upon the front door below. It was answered, and we heard two sets of footsteps ascending. A soft tap, and Mrs. Hudson opened the sitting-room door just a fraction.

“Mr. Holmes,” said she, “I have a gentleman by the name of Lestrade here to see you.”

“Aha!” said my friend, now all eagerness and good humour. “Show him in, Mrs. Hudson, show him in!”

The lady stood back, and ushered through a plainly dressed gentleman: sharp-featured, almost ratlike. He looked around him, then to me, and finally to Sherlock Holmes.

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes,” said he, with a nod.

“Watson,” said Holmes, with an inscrutable expression, “I would like to introduce you to Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard.”


	4. The Truth, and Going Forward

Inspector Lestrade and I shook hands. We stood back and surveyed each other with a mutual suspicion.

“Dr. John Watson,” I added.

The Inspector looked from one to the other of us.

“I was unaware that Mr. Holmes was unwell,” said he, with a frown. “Unless the malady is psychological?”

“I am not ill,” said Holmes with some asperity. “And why is everybody suddenly inferring that I am a dustbin lid?”

Inspector Lestrade appeared confused. “A dustbin lid?”

“Never mind,” said Holmes.

“Has something happened?” I asked, concerned. Then, to my friend: “Holmes, what have you done?”

“I haven't done _anything_ ,” said Holmes, who was by now verging on a sulking fit. “Inspector Lestrade is here to see me on official business. I have not divested any aged maiden aunts of their insurance money, do let me assure you of that, Watson.”

“I see,” I said, not seeing at all. “Would you wish me to be absent, in that case?”

Lestrade had deposited himself upon one of our chairs meanwhile.

“Mr. Holmes and yourself are sharing lodgings,” he observed, with amused detachment and a most disconcerting chuckle.

“Yes.”

“You will have a full head of grey within the fortnight.”

“Oh do shut up, Lestrade,” said my friend. “Help yourself to a cigarette from the box there, and then tell us why it is that you are here. Watson,” he turned to me then, “you are welcome to stay, if you wish. It will doubtless satisfy that infernal curiosity of yours.”

I perched myself upon one of the breakfast chairs. Holmes resumed his own seat opposite to Lestrade. He reclined dramatically, his fingers set as a pyramid beneath his chin, his eyes closed. 

“Don't drop off, now, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade. “I shouldn't like to have to repeat all of what I am about to tell you.”

An irritated orchestration from Holmes's right index finger indicated that the indolent body attached to it was most certainly awake and that the Inspector should continue.

Inspector Lestrade proceeded to tell us of a most terrible murder that had taken place at a property off the Brixton Road. A word had been scrawled in blood upon one of the walls in the room where the body had been found.

Holmes pursed his lips. “The French word for 'cow'. An insult indeed, and quite clearly directed at the deceased gentleman.”

“No, Mr. Holmes. With an _R. Rache_.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Watson?”

“It is German for 'revenge', Holmes.”

“Of course it is,” said he, closing his eyes again. “I knew that.”

A few more details from the Inspector, to which Holmes listened attentively despite his recumbence, and then a short summing-up of the facts.

“So, will you come?” asked Inspector Lestrade.

“Yes, I believe so,” said Holmes.

“You are a policeman?” I said to my friend, in some considerable surprise.

Holmes chuckled.

“Not at all,” said he. “I am a consulting detective, Watson. The only one in the world.” He said this with pride.

“You are surely exaggerating,” I said.

He frowned. “Am not. I am unique.”

Lestrade stood up. “I think that I might leave the two of you to your bickering,” said he. “We shall be at Lauriston Gardens when you are ready, Mr. Holmes, and we look forward to seeing you.”

“I have no doubt of that,” said Holmes.

When we were alone once more, I raised an enquiring eyebrow to this extraordinary fellow sat before me.

“A consulting detective,” I repeated slowly. “Working for Scotland Yard.”

“On occasion,” said Holmes. “Other times I attend to independent enquiries. Unfortunately these tend more towards the realm of the lost kitten or the mislaid wedding ring rather than anything especially juicy -- I mean, interesting,” he amended.

“A good murder must really cheer you up then,” I remarked dryly.

“Oh yes,” said he, eagerly. Then: “Will you come with me, to Lauriston Gardens?”

“You would wish me to?”

Holmes nodded. “You are a doctor. You might prove useful. That is, if you have nothing better to do with your time today.”

I confess that a small thrill passed through me at the thought of attending this most intriguing investigation.

“I should be delighted,” I said.

Holmes grinned, gleeful. “Goody,” he said.

And thus from the tentative beginnings of our initial meeting and subsequent friendship, blossomed the first colourful fruits of my working relationship with one Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. As mad as a dustbin lid he most certainly was, is, and forever shall be. I should not wish to change him.

 

-END-


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